


The Half-Light

by arabesque05



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-01 05:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10182029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabesque05/pseuds/arabesque05
Summary: Pre-canon. Percival Graves comes across a stray.





	1. Chapter 1

_Something like soft light, something like shadows:_  
_This silence, this_  
_pause before the machines_  
_begin again_

— Tim Seibles

* * *

A little after the usual lunchtime rush at the subway entrance on Park Place and Broadway, a man accepts a pamphlet from Credence and does not immediately hurry off. He’s well-dressed, older but not yet old, tall but not taller than Credence. A banker perhaps, judging by the tailoring of his suit. The man reads aloud from the pamphlet, “The New Salem Philanthropic Society,” and peers at Credence with dark eyes.

“Yes, sir,” answers Credence.

“And when do you meet?” asks the man.

Credence bites his lip. He stares down at the stack of pamphlet in his own hands, the neat lettering toward the bottom: SUN 5PM–7PM, TUE 2PM–4PM, WED 6PM–8PM. He says anyway, “Sunday evenings, from five until seven; and Tuesdays, in the afternoon —“

“This wind is very unpleasant,” announces the man. “Come along, have a cup of coffee with me and tell me about this society. I am afraid I sometimes work on Sundays, though it is the Sabbath; but do your best, young man, and shepherd me back into the flock.”

“Oh,” says Credence, faltering, “it is not that kind of — I mean, we are not an _evangelical_ —“

“So much the better!” declares the man, doing some shepherding of his own. Credence finds himself swept down the street, around the corner, and seated at a table in a restaurant before he has caught his breath.

“Sir,” protests Credence.

“Two coffees,” the man tells their waiter, “and the roast beef on rye — ah,” turning to Credence, “—Have you another preference? Their roast beef is really quite good. No? — then, yes, roast beef, two, and bring the mustard, thank you.”

Credence risks a glance around. It is a quietly elegant place, all darkwood chairs and white linen tablecloths and gleamingly polished water glasses — a far finer place than anywhere Credence has been. He is suddenly and hotly aware of the patched elbows on his suit, the frayed hems riding up his ankles.

“Sir,” Credence tries again, “I really mustn’t — I cannot accept —”

 _Your kindness_ , Credence should say: _I cannot accept your kindness, but thank you all the same_ — except this does not feel like kindness. Credence knows how to say “thank you” to businessmen who brush past him in the evenings, and to housewives who slam the door shut in his face, and to the policemen who blow their whistles and warn him off street corners — but, somehow, to this man and his terrible, overwhelming affability, Credence cannot make himself grateful.

How can it be a kindness? thinks Credence. Isn’t it an abduction?

The man peers at him again with those dark eyes. The expression in them is surprisingly mild. When it becomes apparent that Credence will not continue, the man says, “You are, of course, not obligated to eat anything — but allow me to make the offer, since I am imposing on your time.”

Credence does not know how to answer that: how to refuse without offending, nor how to accept without burdening. While he struggles, their coffees arrive. The man reaches across the table, glances up at Credence, “A little sugar? A dash of milk? A little more? Splendid,” and stirs with the sort of practiced elegance that barely clinks the spoon, before pushing the coffee across the table to Credence. Then he takes his own and drinks it, black.

A silence settles. The man looks at the pamphlet he had taken from Credence. Credence, when he works up the courage, steals looks at the man. Eventually, the man asks, “Do you believe in witches? That they —” he taps the pamphlet, “—live among us?”

 _Yes_ , Mary Lou’s son should say, unequivocal. Credence is not equal yet to such faith. He worries at the ragged edge of his thumbnail and says, “I believe there is wickedness in the world, and — we cannot always know its form.”

“And magic?” asks the man, keen. “Have you seen magic before?”

Credence’s ears burn. Miserably, he wishes for the fire-forged iron of his mother’s faith, or even the placid certainty of Chastity’s — but he, making a lie of his name, can only offer, “No, sir, I — I have not.”

“Well,” says the man, with a remarkable lack of disappointment. He folds the pamphlet in half and slips it into his coat pocket, then looks around curiously. “I wonder where our sandwiches are?”

The dismissal is clear. Credence collects his pamphlet stack and stands up. “Then … if I have satisfied your questions …”

“Are you in a hurry?” asks the man. “Have you eaten already?”

“No,” admits Credence. “But I do not want to trouble — “

“Not at all,” says the man. When Credence does not sit down, the man says, “But stay for lunch, allow me to ask a few more questions. I am curious about the, ah, the theological difference between _magic_ and _miracle_?” His forehead wrinkles into a peculiar expression. His brows, dark and thick, slant downwards, and makes him look more quizzical than displeased. “As a particular example, let us consider the transfiguration of — what was it? Bread?”

“Bread?” Credence sits back down. His faith is as that of a worm, not equal to Chastity’s, nor even Modesty’s, and his tendency to sin is of perpetual concern for his mother; but Credence knows his Scripture. Credence has never suffered from a lack of understanding. Suddenly, he finds himself sure-footed again. “Do you mean … of Jesus? On the mountain?”

“Ah, is that what I mean?”

“When He shown with divine radiance,” clarifies Credence. “Or — are you thinking of transubstantiation? But… ” Credence frowns. “We are not papists, sir.”

“Of course,” agrees the man, something of good humor lurking around the corners of his mouth. “Nor evangelical. I know.”

The waiter comes around with their sandwiches then. He sets a jar of mustard in the middle of the table and departs with their empty coffee cups. Credence looks at the food in front of him and then at the man.

“I suppose it is a little late at this point,” says the man, catching Credence’s eye, “but — hello. My name is Percival Graves.”

“I’m — Credence. Credence Barebone.”

Mr. Graves looks astonished for moment, and then as if he has just heard a very good joke. “How positively morbid,” he murmurs, “Graves and Barebone. Isn’t that something?” He smiles, almost too good-natured a smile for so well-dressed a man. He says, “I’m very pleased to meet you, Credence.”

“Y-yes,” stammers Credence, “and you, Mr. Graves.”

* * *

He next runs into Percival Graves on a blustery day when it looks like rain. The sky is a sheet of iron overhead, foreboding. Credence hauls his posters and pail of glue-wash down the side-street, where the entrance to smaller shops, those that cannot afford a street-facing front, are tucked away. Ma had said these places would be Sympathetic To Our Cause. Credence dutifully puts up the posters. He hopes it does not rain.

Credence is finishing up his sixth poster, and thinking that he might count this particular side-street as complete, when Mr. Graves comes around the corner of an alley. He has a pigeon clutched in his hands, held away from his body.

Credence stares.

Mr. Graves looks as well put together as when Credence had last seen him — hair neatly smoothed back, the collar of his coat cleanly creased — except for the pigeon in his hands, cooing gutturally. He casts a distracted glance at Credence, and then hurries past to the mouth of the side-street. Credence sees when he steps into the wind, the sudden snap of his overcoat, his scarf tugging to the side. Mr. Graves lowers his hands slightly and then heaves them up, thrusting the bird into the air. With flutter of feathers, and then wings beating so heavily Credence can hear it down the street, the bird flies off.

Mr. Graves stares after it. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his hands. Then he turns on his heels and comes back down the street.

“Hello, Credence,” he says, perfectly even.

“Mr. Graves,” answers Credence, wondering where the conversation can possibly go after that bizarre demonstration. Credence has heard that men who dress as Mr. Graves does, after they visit Certain Establishments, sometimes engage in recreational pigeon-catching; but Credence thought such sport more popular among his own age set; and besides, Mr. Graves looks sober.

But Mr. Graves is forthright. “What did you see, just now?” he asks.

Credence looks at Mr. Graves’ hands, and then at the mouth of the side-street, and then up at the gray sky. “You had a pigeon, sir,” he says finally. “It flew off.”

“Excellent, excellent,” says Mr. Graves, in pleased tones, as if he were an eye doctor and Credence had managed to read the small letters at the very bottom. He puts his handkerchief away and looks Credence over appraisingly. His gaze sharpens on the posters, the glue-wash still in Credence’s hands. “Hard at work again,” he says.

Credence looks at the posters too: the stylized flames, the clenched fist. He wonders if Mr. Graves will ask him again, more questions about Ma’s — about Credence’s — about their cause. The conversation last time had been strange. Mr. Graves did not seem curious in the manner of a Seeker of Truth, devout and fervent the way the regular members of Ma’s prayer meetings were; his curiosity was mild, detached, anthropological. Yet he listened with an attention that, more focused on Credence’s words than Credence himself, gave little pressure, and his questions, though they demonstrated a shocking lack of Scripture literacy, were interested. Talking to him was easy, and the ease of it was pleasant.

Now, Mr. Graves says, “Will you give me the rest of the posters?”

Credence snaps his eyes back to Mr. Graves — catches the glimpse of a frown, as if something disagreed with his digestion; and then, Mr. Graves’ expression smooths over, mild and pleasant in the manner of a man asking for a small, passing favor.

“These posters?” asks Credence, certain he had misunderstood.

“Yes,” agrees Mr. Graves. He brightens — a discreet thing, entirely in his eyes and the tilt of his eyebrows. “Let me help you spread the word. I’ll take them back to my office — better yet,” he rocks back on his heels, slipping his hands into his pockets, shoulders opening in an expansive gesture, “—I’ll put them up around the office. My staff could do with some reminders of — ah, vigilance.”

“Well,” says Credence, dubiously. It will save him an afternoon’s work, but that kind of motivation is wicked and Credence must guard against the temptation. But to deny someone seeking the Word of Truth — that is even more wicked. “If you’d like, sir.”

“Splendid,” says Mr. Graves, taking the posters from Credence. He looks down the street and then up at the sky, and he asks, “Have you had lunch yet?”

Credence stays silent, heavy with the sense of reliving an argument already lost.

Mr. Graves casts him a sideways glance — somehow understanding, almost sympathetic, as if he knows how overwhelming he can be and is sorry for it. But he says, “Come along,” and heads down the street — and Credence follows.

* * *

There is a line for the cashier at Horn & Hardart, where they go to lunch. Credence is surprised to hear that Mr. Graves has never been to an automat before; doubly so, when Credence learns that Mr. Graves works in the Woolsworth Building. Quick lunches at H&H seem to be a favorite among working men of all professions.

As they wait in line, a man comes up behind them and stands waiting as well. His gaze flows over Credence, lingers on Mr. Graves a moment, flickers away, and then comes back in an almost comical double-take. He says, taking half a step forward, “Oh, hello! I say, that’s an awfully well-cut coat.”

Mr. Graves turns his head. He looks at Credence first, and then at the man behind Credence. “Thank you,” he says, polite and blank.

“What a happy coincidence, to meet you here. I have been meaning to ask you for the name of your tailor for weeks now! Oh — pardon, we work in the same building. I see you around sometimes, don’t I?”

Credence wonders idly if this is how men of a certain class introduce themselves to each other, by exchanging tailor names instead of name cards. But that cannot be correct, because now Mr. Graves’ whole demeanor changes. His gaze sharpens. He smiles, affable in a terrible way. He says, “ _Do_ you? I wonder where?”

“Well, I work on twenty-seventh. Copywriting. How about you?”

“Law,” says Mr. Graves, strangely keen. “Not quite as high up as you. It must have been the lobby, then? What a memory you have for faces — it’s always such a crowd in there!”

“Oh, well,” says the man, rather bewildered now, “no — I don’t suppose the lobby, exactly — but around the entrance —” continuing more certainly, now, with a memory in mind, “oh — yes, I remember, you came out through a side door — actually, do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever used that exit before …”

The keenness deflates. Mr. Graves does not seem overly surprised by this information. He does not recommend that exit; the door handles are not well cleaned. He asks after the copywriting business, in rather tepid tones. He does not give the man the name of his tailor.

When they arrive at the front of the line, Mr. Graves says goodbye to the man, and then takes Credence up to the cashier.

“Oh, no, no,” says Mr. Graves when Credence makes a motion to dig out the money in his pocket. Credence does not have very much, but he can manage lunch at least. But Mr. Graves says, pulling out his own wallet, “You will please allow me. Think of it as payment for the posters.”

So Credence is neatly overruled. Mr. Graves squints at his wallet and manages to rifle out a dollar. The squinting continues when the cashier gives them nickels in exchange. They go further into the dining area. Credence, in gnawing shame, wonders at Mr. Graves’ expression — if perhaps Mr. Graves is not as well-off as he looks, if he can ill-afford the expense of a dollar for lunch — but when Credence dares another look at Mr. Graves, it is not _rue_ characterizing his dubious expression. It’s perplexity.

Perhaps the other way around, realizes Credence. Has Mr. Graves never handled change before?

“Well,” says Mr. Graves eventually. He takes Credence’s hand and dumps the coin collection into Credence’s palm. “Coffee for me, please — and whatever you’re having.”

“Yes, sir,” says Credence.

Mr. Graves picks his way through the tiny, round-topped tables in the dining area and eventually finds a spare seat. Credence heads for the food dispensers. A nickel in the slot to open the glass door, behind which sits a sandwich or fish cake or pastry, any variety of things. He suffers a moment of conflicted agony over what to get — he does not know Mr. Graves’ preferences, and it would not do to indulge too heavily in his own. He settles for plain standard lunch fare: salad, sandwich, coffee, pie.

Mr. Graves does not say anything about the food, either way. He eats — not enthusiastically, but efficiently enough and not too particular about the taste. Over salad, he casts a considering eye over Credence — not unkindly, but not softly either. Credence suspects that Mr. Graves, for all his fine manners and fine clothes, is not a soft man.

“What do you read, Credence?” he asks, without the obvious air of a man making conversation. “Besides the Bible.”

“The hymnal,” answers Credence. He thinks. There is not much else. “Sermons.”

“The classics, I suppose,” says Mr. Graves. “Davenport? Edwards? _Thus it is that natural men are held in the hand of God, over the pit of hell; they have deserved the fiery pit, and are already sentenced to it; and God is dreadfully provoked._ ”

“Why — yes,” says Credence, in some surprise. “Do you know that one, sir? It’s Ma’s favorite.”

“I thought it might be,” says Mr. Graves, dryly.

The quizzing continues. Mr. Graves is very good at asking questions. Had his manners been less easy, they might have descended into an interrogation; as it is, they manage a conversation. Credence has a little Shakespeare, from school; his mother rather likes Bradstreet and Wigglesworth, but looks unfavorably upon the modern poets; he is not familiar with the other sort of classics, Homer or Aeschylus or Virgil; no, he does not read novels, for they corrupt the soul and divert one’s thoughts from God.

“Your mother says,” concludes Mr. Graves.

“She has said.”

“Do you agree with everything your mother says?”

It is a simple enough question. And yet every answer is wrong.

But Mr. Graves waits for Credence’s, patient. Credence looks at him in the gray light of the afternoon. It has started to rain outside. They are at Horn&Hardart on Eighth Avenue, familiar to Credence and unfamiliar to Mr. Graves, where nevertheless, they came to have lunch — and Credence thinks again: not a soft man, but not unkind. He braves the question.

“I trust Ma to guard against temptation. I trust her strength because — I am not as strong.”

“Not as obstinate, perhaps.” Mr. Graves makes a neat cut in his pie with a fork. “But there is no moral failure in simply being open to persuasion.” Then, smiling in that unexpectedly good-natured way of his, “Is there?”

Credence stares down at his hands, curls his fingers inwards. What a dangerous thing a smile can be, he thinks. “W-well. I suppose — sometimes it seems … Ma does not like the Mathers. She disagrees with the father’s treatise that spectral evidence should not be permissible in court.” Credence does not know how to say something so unfilial as, _I think she is wrong._ “But it is on purpose that our current courts do not allow — oh, I’m sorry, are you familiar with —?”

“The admittance of dreams and visions as witness testimony,” says Mr. Graves, surprising Credence again. “ _Cases of Conscience Concerning Evil_ , yes? I am familiar with it.”

Credence stares. He has never met anyone familiar with — “Oh,” he remembers. “You are a lawyer, Mr. Graves.”

“Ah,” says Mr. Graves delicately.

“Yes, that one,” says Credence. “As he says: If the devil can lead the accused astray, then why not the witness? How can we trust the testimony to be a true vision?”

“I never thought I would argue for the other side,” murmurs Mr. Graves. He leans an elbow on the table, shockingly casual, rests his chin in his palm, looks at Credence with bright, laughing eyes. “That seems rather an issue of who may be considered _expert_ , then. The opinions of some people, by virtue of their education or experience, may be admitted as evidence — then why not by virtue of, ah, virtue?”

“But,” Credence frowns, feeling as if he were groping his way in the dark, toward something inexpressible, “but if virtue is a product of _faith_ — it cannot be judged in courts of man. It is not possible to establish such an expert.”

Mr. Graves is in agreement. “And then,” he adds, “there is the tricky business of timing when it comes to visions, for they may not yet have come to pass. I saw a trial once with an oracle as witness, and of course, how can you judge a man for future crimes? But — ah,” he says, seeing Credence’s wide-eyed startlement, “—that was in another country.”

The reply rises up Credence’s throat, a temptation. He ducks his head, resists; thinks again, peeks up at Mr. Graves. Shyly, Credence dares, “And besides, the wench is dead.”

As Credence had wished, the laughter in Mr. Graves’ eyes brims over, spills out, a warm generous sound. Credence’s heart trembles: it is too much, to look as well as to hear. He looks down at his hands again, clenches them, steadies himself.

Mr. Graves recovers. “So you have read Marlowe,” he surmises, “or is it Eliot?” And then, something warm curled in his voice, “And you do not always listen to your mother.”

That is not anything to be proud of. Credence, listening with all his heart, thinks Mr. Graves is proud, anyway.

* * *

Mr. Graves insists Credence keep the change from lunch, though it comes to almost a half-dollar. Buy a book, he instructs. “I recommend _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_ – though, of course that is not true,” he says, rather ruthlessly. As Credence’s ears turn red, he relents: “Try Bunyan. _Pilgrim’s Progress._ ”

“But, sir,” protests Credence.

Mr. Graves holds the door open for Credence. It has stopped raining. “Mr. Barebone,” he says, following Credence outside, “you will not have me _jingle_ back to work.”

The thought has some appeal: a temptation again. Credence breathes in the fresh smell of just after-rain. Spring is on the air. “ _Pilgrim’s Progress_ ,” he repeats.

“ _From This World_ ,” adds Mr. Graves, leading Credence down the street, “ _to That Which Is to Come._ ”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Of course Credence does not buy the book: what would he say to his mother? He cannot imagine that conversation resulting in anything but the belt.

So before Credence heads home for the day, he takes a detour down two blocks to St. Paul’s and drops the change into their poor box. St. Paul’s is Episcopalian, but Credence figures they read the same Bible: God is God, after all, and the poor are poor.

* * *

On weekends, when City Hall is emptied of its usual soberly-dressed bustle, Credence quits his post at the Park Place station. There is no point in handing out leaflets to effect policy change when there are no politicians about. So Credence goes elsewhere: sometimes with Ma on her speech rallies; sometimes by himself, to spread the word as best as he can.

Credence is not good at proselytizing. He does not have a preacher’s charisma, or fervor, or vocal projection. Still, he likes it, if only for just the physical freedom of not being tethered to any underground tunnel. Sometimes he follows the avenues north all the way to Central Park. Sometimes he stays near home and puts up posters. Sometimes he takes the streetcar across Brooklyn Bridge, under which the East River stretches out, wide and blue and terrifying. Credence wonders what the ocean must be like.

The apartment buildings near the docks in Brooklyn are not so different from the buildings on Credence’s side of the river: old, crowded, cramped, fighting with each other for sunlight like weeds in a garden. Clotheslines strung between the buildings like a strange mimicry of the cables on the bridge. The stench of garbage in the alleyways. Pigeons everywhere. It makes for a comfortable familiarity.

Today is flyering day. Credence goes from building to building, puts up flyers on the front entrance, in stairwell landings, on water closet doors. Kids playing near the front stoops pay him no mind, but at his third building, a lady—young, pretty, in a light blue hat—holds the door open for him on her way out of the building. The hallways inside are dark, lit only by the thin light of a window at the end of the hall. Credence makes his way through the first floor.

On the stairwell of the second floor, he runs into the lady in the blue hat again. “Oh hello!” she says.

“Ma’am,” says Credence.

“Working your way up? Only four more!” she says, in encouragement. Credence thanks her, and goes down the hall of the second floor.

On the third floor, Credence sticks a flyer into the door jamb of the water closet and turns around to come face to face with the lady again. She closes the apartment door behind her, sees him, and gives an embarrassed laugh. “Well, this is backwards! I promise, I am not following you.”

 _Backwards_ not a bad word for it, agrees Credence: he has seen her three times now, each time apparently leaving the building; and yet, each time, somehow further inside. It is a little strange. Credence offers, “Have you forgotten something?”

He hits the mark. “But I cannot think what it is!” She sighs in explosive exasperation, unsettled. “I have my keys, my purse, my hat. I have turned the stove off. The windows are closed. And yet—!” She rubs her forehead. “What can it be? I have come back twice already.”

Credence does not have any advice for this. Credence’s possessions are few; and so frequently does Credence forget to obey his mother’s strictures that he suspects he would only feel that he is forgetting something if the guilt ever left him. He suggests, “Is it the lock, perhaps? You have not locked your door yet.”

She locks her door. They wait a moment as she takes internal stock. “Well,” she says, looking dubious.

Footsteps on the stairs. Credence turns his head, looks down the hall, sees a tall figure in a handsome coat. _Backwards_ , thinks Credence faintly. _This is all backwards._

“Oh, hello, Mr. Graves,” says the lady.

So it is not a fever-dream.

Mr. Graves looks at Credence—the only indication of his surprise is how still he has gone. Then he says, smoothly turning his gaze on the lady, “Hello, Mamie. How are you? How’s Jack?”

There is a key in Mr. Graves’ hand, realizes Credence, and a newspaper under his arm and a bundle in wax paper in his other hand, as if—as if he has gone to the butcher’s, gone _grocery_ _shopping_. He cannot _live_ here. Here! thinks Credence. How does the shine on Mr. Graves’ shoes ever survive?

But Mamie is saying, with neighborly frankness, “He’s all right, the cough’s better, I’ll let him know you said hello. But are you staying in for a little while, Mr. Graves?”

“Yes.”

“Well, will you keep a nose out for me again? I am sure I turned off the stove, but in case you smell anything—just in case. Just while I run these errands. I’ll be back very soon.”

“Take your time,” replies Mr. Graves. “I’ll keep my nose out—throw in my ears too, if you like, get you a bargain.”

Mamie laughs, dimpling. She looks quite a bit more relieved as she thanks Mr. Graves. She thanks Credence as well, surprising him. Then she goes on her way.

Mr. Graves puts his key into the lock of apartment one down from Mamie’s, but he doesn’t turn the door handle. He looks back at Credence, still rooted to the spot by the water-closet.

“Hello, Credence,” he says. And then, like something inevitable, “Have you eaten yet?”

* * *

The apartment Mr. Graves leads Credent into—Mr. Graves’ apartment, Credence thinks, trying it on for size; it does not suit—is tidy enough, though this seems less like a conscious choice and more the result of not possessing enough things to be untidy about. There are only two rooms: bedroom in front, with just the bed and a dresser and a water basin on a stand in one corner; and in the back, the kitchen with a stove, a sink, a cupboard, a bathtub, a window, a small worn table and a single chair. The bathtub is full of newspapers.

Mr. Graves sets his packages down on the table. “Come hover in the kitchen,” he tells Credence. “Don’t hover in the doorway. Are you coming? Are you leaving? Makes the door nervous.”

Credence can recognize a joke pretty well, even when he is not the butt of it. Now, though still reeling with the surprise of Mr. Graves living here, Credence manages a “ha, ha,” not too feebly. He steps into the kitchen.

“Set your pamphlets down—oh, not pamphlets today? Come have a seat.” Mr. Graves looks around but there is only one chair. He pulls it out for Credence and, promising to only be a moment, strides out of the room.

Credence stays standing in the middle of the kitchen, though the room is so small there is not much point in designating a middle or otherwise. The afternoon is still young and the light from the window is good. He looks around—at the pockmarked legs of the table; the bathtub bolted to the floor, rust stains on a patch of its edge; the newspapers inside. Mr. Graves, thinks Credence, is maybe one-thirds exquisite tailoring and one-thirds exquisite manners; of the remaining portion, he is five parts surprising and one part bizarre—and that last portion is growing in Credence’s estimation.

Credence had not known what to expect of Mr. Graves’ residence: Credence did not know fine enough things. Something grand. Marble floors, maybe, black haircloth armchairs, chandeliers, vaulted ceilings. Somewhere of unimaginable wealth and elegance and splendor. But this—the little apartment is even more unimaginable.

In another moment, Mr. Graves comes back into the kitchen, chair in hand. Credence frowns, wondering how he could have missed the chair in his inventory of the front room earlier. But Mr. Graves had not been gone long enough to borrow it from a neighbor; and besides, the chair matches the one already at the table—or, at least, they are of a height. Chairs with such faded paint cannot really be said to match anything.

“Can you peel potatoes?” Mr. Graves asks. He sets the chair down. His attention turns to the wax-paper packages.

“Yes, sir. But you were not expecting me. It is—not convenient. I will go home for lunch.”

“It is three o’clock already,” Mr. Graves points out.

Credence is surprised by the hour. “You take lunch late, sir.”

“I am not the only one, I think,” says Mr. Graves, smiling. He beckons Credence over, hands him two potatoes. “You can have the cats’ portion. It is no inconvenience.”

“Cats?” repeats Credence.

Mr. Graves takes this for agreement. He goes to the cupboard and retrieves a small knife and a bowl, which he gives to Credence. Credence accepts them with a greater sense of fatalism than he had felt when Ma preached about predestination: the fate of his eternal soul seems yet unclear; lunch when in Mr. Graves’ company seems unavoidable. Mr. Graves returns to his packages. A dark bunch of spinach comes out next; a sprig of rosemary; several fish, silvery gray.

He tells Credence, “They’re on the fire escape.”

Credence looks at the window, and then down at the potatoes in his hand.

Mr. Graves makes a small sound, too short to be a sigh. “Go on,” he tells Credence. “The peeling will keep.”

So Credence sets down the potatoes and bowl and knife, goes, looks back again for confirmation, and then works the window open. Outside on the landing of the fire escape lie lounging three cats, sunning themselves lazily. A tabby, a calico, and one gray with white stripes.

“Oh,” says Credence.

“Don’t pet them,” warns Mr. Graves. A little ruefully, he adds, “They bite.”

“They’re not yours?”

“Strays.”

Credence remembers the potatoes and goes back to the table, starts peeling. “But—you feed them?”

“They’ve trained me well,” Mr. Graves agrees, dryly. He goes to the sink and turns on the water, and then does something bloody and terrible with fish guts at the sink. “That’s not why they come. The landing just gets a lot of sun.”

Privately, Credence thinks that Mr. Graves regularly feeding the cats has rather a lot to do with the congregation on his fire escape. But Credence does not disagree out loud. He finishes peeling the potatoes. Mr. Graves tells him to cut them into wedges. When this is done, Mr. Graves exchanges the bowl of potatoes for a bowl of fish heads and tells Credence to set it outside for the cats.

The calico languidly heaves itself upright and comes over to nose at the bowl. The tabby and the gray remain where they are, eyeing Credence with supreme disinterest. Credence stays at the window and returns their gaze. He feels something of kinship with them: ones who Mr. Graves feeds. They might form a society even, thinks Credence idly—him and three cats.

Credence hears from behind the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing, and some moments later, the hiss of fish in a hot pan, the splutter of oil. He braces his arms on the window ledge and looks out. Across the alley is another building. In between it and this one are strung laundry lines on which hang clothes and towels and fluttering linen sheets, and through the gaps Credence can see patches of a blue sky. From a distance comes the low mournful horn of a coal-boat on the river. The tabby gets up and joins calico at the fish heads.

Credence goes back to the table and sits. His flyers are still neatly stacked on the table. Next to them lies Mr. Graves’ newspaper. BIG PINEY EXAMINER, it reads across the top: THE GREEN RIVER VALLEY NEWSPAPER. The first article is about the state of America’s roads. The second, about an invisible mountain made of crystal. At the stove, Mr. Graves puts a lid on the pan. He cleans up, puts away the cutting board and knives with a practiced lack of fuss—his movements not fast but familiar enough with the task. It was how Charity had been at washing dishes, when Credence was first brought home; and in turn how Credence had been, when Modesty was brought home. Credence supposes soon it will be Modesty’s turn at dishwashing.

The kitchen tidied, Mr. Graves joins Credence at the table. He picks up one of Credence’s flyers and examines it with a critical eye. “Newspaper photograph?” he asks, gesturing to the picture of Ma on the flyer. HEED MY WORDS exhorts the text underneath.

“Yes, sir. The _New-York_ _Evening Post_ did a feature of us a while back—it was front page.”

Mr. Graves’ eyebrows quirk up. “Your mother must have been pleased.”

“I suppose. It was the bottom fold and continued on page eight. Ma thought it would have been better as the headliner.”

“I’m sure,” says Mr. Graves, with telling blandness. Credence feels the back of his neck flush warm. He never feels so distinct from his mother, so separate an existence, as when he is with Mr. Graves. Still, he does not know how to feel embarrassed for her without feeling embarrassed for himself; and to be the object of Mr. Graves’ disapproval must, it seems to Credence, warrant embarrassment. After another moment, Mr. Graves says, "The _Evening Post_ is just down the street from Woolsworth?”

Credence nods.

“A triumph for you, then!” says Mr. Graves. “Your pamphlets secured the interview?”

“M-ma convinced the editor,” stammers Credence, bowing his head. He feels the flush working its way up his neck, spreading to his ears. “She went to his office. I don’t think it was—I don’t think my pamphlets…I am—not very good at it.”

Silence falls after this pronouncement. Mr. Graves puts the flyer back down. “Well,” he says eventually. “Caught me, didn’t you?”

He stands and goes to the stove.

Something rises up in Credence’s chest, gets caught in his throat, a little painful. Not tears, exactly. He stares at Mr. Graves’ back, straight and broad and strong. Credence feels—ill with desperate gratitude, bewildered by it, flushed too hot, undone by a tremble in his chest he cannot name. Mr. Graves lifts the lid of the pan. The smell of rosemary blooms in the kitchen.

* * *

Over the meal, Credence hazards that the fish is very good. With more self-awareness than modesty and more resignation than either, Mr. Graves says that the fish is adequate, and that only if you are not particular about taste. Credence eats his food. It seems obstinate to disagree further. He supposes he must not be particular about taste.

Mr. Graves, serious, solemn, straight-faced, asks how Credence is enjoying his recent celebrity. “Interviewed by one of the oldest papers in this country—that is no small thing, is it? As you rise to national prominence, Credence, to fame and fortune and glory, I beg you will remember your friends in New York—”

Credence stares, stricken. “Fame…?” Where is such talk coming from? It sounds terrifying.

“Mmm,” nods Mr. Graves, brows furrowing inwards. He presses his lips together, looks at his plate with sudden focus. And—then Credence understands.

“Oh,” he says, faintly. “Oh—you’re…teasing me.”

“Only a little,” assures Mr. Graves.

It is the right amount. Credence does not feel equipped to handle any more. Then he realizes the rest of what Mr. Graves had said— _your friends in New York_ —and, even in jest, it is too much anyway. His face feels warm. The tremble in his chest from earlier returns, threefold. Never before has Credence wanted more to believe in the truth of a thing. Not even in the Lord’s covenant, for that was a belief of faith—but this. This.

Credence does not know what this is.

It occurs to him that he can ask. That, Mr. Graves who condescends to friendly teasing, might not count it an insolence.

Credence says, “Mr. Graves,” which is mistake. How heavy his attention is. Credence struggles on. “Why do you … invite me to meals?”

Mr. Graves looks surprised by this question. “Because you’re hungry.”

While that is true, Credence does not know how Mr. Graves arrived at such a conclusion. It does not seem self-evident to Credence. He is not that skinny.

His expression must communicate this doubt. Mr. Graves gestures at Credence’s wrists. “Your cuffs are two inches short. The shirt is not new, but not so old as that. No, you’ve had a growth spurt recently.” A smile, which soothes the embarrassment of being caught in short cuffs. “Boys your age and with your height: you’re always hungry.” He says this plainly, almost matter-of-fact.

And now, here: another thing Credence wants to believe. Hunger as the product of biology, rather than a mark of gluttony. Rather than manifestation of his lack of Grace. It is a tempting thought. It is too tempting a thought. Nothing so good should come so easily.

“Thank you,” croaks Credence. Then, in half-diversion and half-reminder, “The cats. What are their names?” So that Mr. Graves might look away and allow Credence to recover. So that Credence might remember that he is not so different from the cats. That Mr. Graves had said _Because you’re hungry_ without particular meaning. It was only the disinterested charity of a good man.

Mr. Graves takes this conversation shift in stride. “They’re strays,” he says with some amusement. “Do you want to name them?”

“Oh—no,” demurs Credence.

“It is never as straightforward a matter as naming humans,” says Mr. Graves meditatively. “Cats have their own ideas on the proceedings. But—to start with, we might try something like: John. For the tabby. There’s a good, sturdy American name, don’t you think? John? Then for the calico, how do you like Increase? Another fine American name.”

Credence freezes with the spoon half-way to his mouth. He peers up at Mr. Graves, whose eyes are glinting.

“Now, the gray. What do you think, Credence? What shall we name him?”

Credence thinks, “Is this…another tease?”

“Are you finding it a little more bearable?” inquires Mr. Graves. “Or shall we quit the exercise?”

Credence shakes his head, then changes his mind, nods. It is not so terrible; it is very terrible. “As—as you like, sir.”

The glint brightens. “And the name?” Mr. Graves smiles, slowly, easily, an invitation. Credence supposes that is what a tease is, anyway: an invitation.

John, Increase—“Cotton,” answers Credence. As patterns go, this one is not hard to solve. As jokes go, this one is perhaps not on Credence: _Ma does not like the Mathers_ , he remembers telling Mr. Graves. As diversions and reminders go, this entire conversation has been a failure.

* * *

When lunch—though it is shading into dinner—concludes, Credence fumbles some words about payment and imposition which quickly dissolve into silence as Mr. Graves’ brows darken. “I—I mean,” swallows Credence.

Mr. Graves clears the table.

“Only—I am…so indebted to you, sir,” tries Credence.

“I am not in the habit of such strict account-keeping,” replies Mr. Graves sternly. But when Credence hunches his shoulders, chastened, Mr. Graves relents somewhat. “Is it so important? Then leave your flyers. I will take them as payment.”

“Will you put them up at your office again?”

“Hmm,” muses Mr. Graves. He gives the matter some thought as he wipes down the table. But, tossing the dishrag into the sink, he instead says, “How are you progressing on Bunyan?”

Credence stiffens, caught—but there is nothing for it. Penitently, the story comes out: it is not that he is ungrateful; it is not that he _meant_ to disobey—only, Credence does not think his mother would approve, and Credence is not so clever as to persuade her—

“No, no, no,” Mr. Graves waves him off. “Nor did I expect you to. I did not think it through.”

“Are you—” Credence casts his eyes up to Mr. Graves’ mouth. He cannot meet his eyes. “Are you very angry?”

“Goodness, not at you,” says Mr. Graves. “But no matter, easily remedied.” He goes to the bathtub of newspapers, rummages around, and produces a battered, spine-cracked book. He gives this to Credence, and then goes back to the sink.

Credence smooths his hands over the cover. The buckram of it has worn down to white strands at the corners. The lettering of the title, though faded, is legible enough. “Should I read this now?”

“Yes, out loud,” says Mr. Graves. He turns on the sink faucet.

So Credence opens the book. Mr. Graves washes the dishes and Credence starts, “ _As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place where there was a Den, and I laid me down in that place …_ ”

When Mr. Graves finishes with the dishes, he sits down again. From his pocket, he pulls out a packet of cigarettes, taps one out, and lights it. He leans his chair back to rest on its hind legs, and the cigarette hangs out of one corner of his mouth, while he listens to Credence read. The smell of tobacco fills the air and mixes with lingering rosemary. Credence reaches the meeting with Mr. Worldly Wiseman before the sky outside has so darkened that Credence must leave or risk a scolding.

Mr. Graves sees him to the door.

“Thank you,” says Credence, awkward, shy. “I have taken up so much of your time.”

Mr. Graves smiles a little, reaches out and flicks a finger against Credence’s cheek. “Off you go, now,” he says. “Come by again when you have time: we haven’t reached the Wicket Gate yet.”

“Yes, sir,” whispers Credence. He holds the warmth of that invitation against the night cold, all the way home.


	3. Chapter 3

Ma comes home from her meeting with the Children’s Aid Society and, by the way she slams shut the front door, Credence does not need to ask how the meeting had gone. He exchanges looks with Chastity. She goes upstairs and locks Modesty in the bathroom. Credence drops the pot of soup he had made.

Afterwards, Ma retires to bed, sore in the arm and tired out. Chastity unlocks the bathroom door. Modesty has fallen asleep in the bathtub.

“She’s missed supper,” sighs Chastity. She reaches into the tub and somehow wrangles Modesty’s arms up and manages to get a grip around her waist. She straightens with a wince. Modesty is getting too big to carry.

“I’ll carry her,” murmurs Credence.

Chastity’s only response to this suggestion is a glare as she brushes by him. But she stops outside the door and looks back. “Come on,” she says quietly. Credence follows her down the hall and into her room. She settles Modesty under the blankets and gestures Credence to sit at the foot of the bed. She goes to her sewing basket by the closet and pulls out several spools of gray thread; underneath them, she has hidden a jar of burn ointment.

“Ma never gave you the money for that?” Credence stares in disbelief.

Chastity does not laugh—and really, Credence has never heard her laugh; but she gives a quick exhale through her nose and her mouth curls a little. She sits down next to Credence on the bed. “No. Joe gave me a discount.”

She uncaps the jar and takes one of Credence’s hands. Credence wrinkles his nose at the smell, and wrinkles it again when he remembers Joe, apprentice clerk at the corner drugstore. “Ma doesn’t like you talking to him. Or going to the store there. None of their cider is—actually cider.”

Chastity meets Credence’s eyes and doesn’t let him look away. “Yes,” she says. There is a peculiar hardness in her gaze, flint-like.

“Okay,” says Credence, after several moments.

Chastity looks back down. She switches to Credence’s other hand. “I wish you wouldn’t—so often.”

Credence looks down at his hands too. “It’s not so often.”

“Well, you don’t have to incite her,” Chastity continues. “It might have just passed tonight, without you spilling supper.”

“It never just passes,” frowns Credence. “She’d had you and Modesty crying at breakfast tomorrow, otherwise. _And_ lunch, probably.”

Chastity says, incomprehensibly, “I wish you’d cry a little easier, too.”

A stirring comes from the head of the bed. Modesty rubs her eyes and sits up. “What happened to your hands, Credence?”

“Um,” says Credence.

“ _Thou shalt beat him with the rod_ ,” says Chastity, capping the ointment. “ _And shalt deliver his soul from hell._ ” She smiles at Modesty. “It’s all right.”

Modesty turns frightened eyes on Credence. “It’s all right,” he repeats, curling his hands and hiding his palms. It does not hurt very badly. Not so very badly.

“Credence dropped supper, is all,” says Chastity. She puts away the jar, hiding it again under the gray thread spools. “Now he knows not to again. But let’s see if we can find anything to eat. There’s still bread, isn’t there, Credence?”

“Ma won’t like—”

Chastity is already helping Modesty off the bed. “We’ll say the rats got to it.”

* * *

All of a sudden the weather turns warm and bright, as if someone has drawn up the curtains to let in the spring sun. Mr. Graves takes Credence to lunch at the park across the street, which turns out to be hot dogs while they admire the public art installations. That is, they eat standing in front of the public art installations, though neither of them do much admiring. Mr. Graves frowns at City Hall across the green; Credence steals looks at Mr. Graves. The sunlight is very kind to Mr. Graves, warming the color of his skin, softening the darkness of his eyes, casting him in such a glow it becomes almost hard to look at.

Mr. Graves turns away from his contemplation of City Hall. Quickly, Credence drops his gaze to the ground in fear of being caught staring—but Mr. Graves has not noticed. Instead, he says, “I have been studying since our last conversation. I imagine you thought me shockingly ill-read.”

Credence protests the impossibility of such a thing.

“Well, I am,” says Mr. Graves equably. “I have not until a week ago read your Bible. Some things which must seem apparent to you, I cannot understand. Tell me about Abraham: when he intended to sacrifice his son, are we meant to follow his example of obedience?”

“Ma says so.”

Mr. Graves is not particularly concerned with what Ma says. “You disagree?”

“Abraham is known for his faith, I think.”

“Aren’t they the same?” Mr. Graves looks interested. “Abraham submits himself to the Word of God—the Law, if you will—regardless of personal interest or sacrifice. That’s obedience.”

Credence hesitates. He thinks about the kind of obedience Ma demands, and the kind of obedience God demands, and their different, respective hopelessness: it isn’t quite the same. “When you sacrifice to the law, you keep the law. But—for Abraham, Isaac was both his son and proof of his covenant with God. He cannot sacrifice to a thing which he is also giving up—I mean, he gave up both the sacrifice and the reason for sacrifice. That is different from obedience, isn’t it?”

Mr. Graves ponders on this. “I see your meaning. Well! This is not as applicable an example as I had hoped.” At Credence’s questioning look, “I have been thinking lately on the inviolability of some of our, hmm, most sacred laws.” He pulls out his handkerchief and cleans his hands of lunch crumbs. “It seemed like the place to start would be with similarly sacred texts—”

He offers Credence the handkerchief. Credence puts one hand up to refuse; but the next moment, Mr. Graves has his fingers around Credence’s wrist, turning Credence’s palm upward. In a dreadful voice, he asks, “What has happened to your hand?”

“O—oh,” stammers Credence.

Mr. Graves grips Credence’s other wrist and brings it up as well. “And this?”

Credence tries to pull his hands back, but Mr. Graves’ grip is like an iron band. Credence flushes, embarrassed. He curls his fingers inward, trying to hide the worst of it. Mr. Graves’ expression grows blacker.

“Who did this?” he demands, all affable good-manners stripped away. Faintly, Credence remembers thinking that it had only been those manners which preserved their conversation-habit. Now it is an interrogation.

“No, no,” protests Credence. “I am—it was—no one, it was—it was an accident—”

He cannot think of any accident that would result in such a deliberate pattern of welts on his hands. It is apparent Mr. Graves cannot either—but, as abruptly as Mr. Graves had seized Credence’s wrists, he lets them go. He takes a step back, as if surprised by how close he has come. “Yes, all right,” he says, in a strangely suppressed tone. The handkerchief is folded and put away and then he is Mr. Graves again, dapper and unruffled.

“It is not very bad,” Credence offers.

Mr. Graves is still for a moment. “My dear,” he says quietly, “you are not a good liar. No, no—I will not ask more on the matter, do not distress yourself.”

They stay a little while longer in the park and speak carefully about the weather, the spring pollen, the art statue, before it is necessary to return to work. But on the corner of Park and Broadway, Mr. Graves lingers uncharacteristically. “You will let me know, won’t you—if you need help.”

“It is not very bad,” Credence says again. And when Mr. Graves remains where he is, peering at Credence intently, Credence can even manage with a little truth, “I am well, sir.”

* * *

The weekend finds Credence at Mr. Graves’ pockmarked table again in Mr. Graves’ cramped little kitchen. They have the same meal of fish and potatoes for lunch again, and since this time the cats have their own portion of fish, Credence can only suppose that Mr. Graves has been expecting him. Credence is not sure how to feel about this. How lowering if Mr. Graves had assumed Credence’s imposition; and—even more agitating somehow, if Mr. Graves had hoped for it. There is no telling. The invitation had not been explicit: Mr. Graves opened the door when Credence was still only halfway down the hall, and met Credence’s eyes, and then went back inside. Credence knew to follow.

After lunch, Credence continues his reading. “ _I beheld then, that they all went on till they came to the foot of a Hill, at the bottom of which was a Spring_.” Mr. Graves smokes his cigarette and listens in silence. He seems interested in but not entirely pleased with this Hill, over which the straight and narrow path continues—but Credence supposes that is the whole point. It is the Hill of Difficulty, after all, not meant to please.

The allegory is familiar enough that Credence reads only half-paying attention to the words. His mother has been telling him about such landscapes his whole life. Of greater interest is Mr. Graves: the presence of Mr. Graves, the nearness of Mr. Graves, the breadth of his shoulders and the expression of frowning thought on his face and how his voice had sounded when he said, _You will let me know, won’t you_.

What sort of help did he mean? So much has already been given to Credence. Credence is not as easy to love as Modesty nor as steadfastly pious as Chastity, but still—room had been made for Credence. Ma had taken him from the orphanage and given him a home and clothed him and fed him and sent him to school; to ask for more would be past all ingratitude. And—only—if Mr. Graves would allow Credence to still come by sometimes, and sit at this table, and read to him—and stay a little—

Suddenly comes a bang against the kitchen wall. Credence stops mid-word and looks up from the book. Mr. Graves turns in his chair as well, legs widening, the movement pulling the fabric of his pants tight over the long line of his thighs.

Now, voices can be heard through the wall. A man is saying, “Honey, honey—” and a woman asking, “Where? What was it?” A door slamming shut, a clang of metal on metal. Footsteps.

Listening in on a private argument embarrasses Credence—but apparently not Mr. Graves, who continues staring at the wall. The voices next door move away from the wall, words growing indistinct but more heated. Something about the pitch of the woman’s voice is familiar, and after a moment Credence remembers that he had met the neighbor before, that it is Mamie who lives next door.

Mr. Graves rises from his seat. Wordlessly, he goes into the front room. Credence wonders if he means to knock on the neighbors’ door and interrupt the argument.

Instead, there comes the sound of something wooden being shifted, a brief crackling sound—and then, amazingly: music. Where can Mr. Graves have stored a phonograph in his little threadbare room? Are there Victrolas small enough to tuck away in a dresser? Credence thinks that by this point, he might not be surprised even if it turns out that Mr. Graves keeps shoe elves in his kitchen cabinets.

It is nice music, solemn, grave, with a similar grandeur as the organ pieces Credence is most familiar with. But the piano on this record has a kinder sound than organ pipes, and a certain plaintiveness in the music is rendered more wistful than grieving. The overall effect is one of melancholy, but a bearable one. It reminds Credence of dusk in winter, how short the light lives, how quickly the night falls. Next door, the voices quiet.

Mr. Graves comes back into the kitchen and resumes his seat.

Credence fingers the dog-eared corner of a book page, hesitating. He wonders if their reading is concluded for the day. “This music is nice.”

Mr. Graves smiles a little, but it is not a happy expression. “Yes,” he says on an exhale. Then there is something sharper in the unhappiness of his smile, and almost bitterness in his voice when he says, “But then, there are no lies in Beethoven.”

Credence, not daring to ask and not knowing how to answer, returns his attention to the dog-eared page corner. Mr. Graves pulls out another cigarette and lights it. After a moment, he says, “Go on,” and obediently, Credence starts reading again. Beethoven plays while they resume the slog up the Hill of Difficulty.

“ _Come, pluck up, Heart; let’s neither faint nor fear: Better, though difficult, the right way to go than wrong…_ ”

It takes a few pages for Credence’s reading to smooth out, but Mr. Graves’ unhappiness proves to be a self-contained thing, which manifests only in the down tilt of his brows and a certain tension in his shoulders. Otherwise, he is as he ever was, quiet and listening. Slowly Credence relaxes. Eventually, some pages later, so does Mr. Graves.

* * *

So they continue in the following weeks. Credence would not call their meals together a habit, nor anything so routine, but there is a certain regularity now. Mr. Graves works long hours during the week, and in the middle of those days he comes strolling past the monuments in St. Pauls’ Churchyard, hands in his pockets and hat somewhat haphazardly placed on his head, as if he were not in the habit of wearing it, and finds Credence on the corner of Church and Vesey, and says, “Come along. What shall we have for lunch today?”

Credence makes a polite refusal, which is always promptly overruled. Exchange of formalities completed, they settle to discuss matters more earnestly. Sometimes it is the automat down the street, sometimes it is hot dogs in the park, sometimes a luncheonette wedged in next to a dimestore, sometimes a sandwich shop where long ropes of sausages hang above the counter.

Weekends, when Credence’s flyer route takes him into Brooklyn, he goes by Mr. Graves’ apartment—and if recently Credence’s route has taken him into Brooklyn more often than is proper, or even plausible, Mr. Graves says nothing about it. He opens the door and says, “Hello, Credence,” and there is always fish enough for Credence. The cats on the fire escape grow used to his presence as well, even allowing him to climb out onto the landing to join them; they slit their eyes and stretch lazily, warm and lazy in the spring sunshine. Cotton is friendliest and occasionally suffers himself to be petted. Mr. Graves, cleaning fish at the kitchen sink, shakes his head and calls it a miracle.

“They really are quite well-behaved,” Credence protests. Cotton yawns, revealing rows of tiny sharp teeth and a pink tongue. His tail twitches idly.

“Thrown over!” declares Mr. Graves. “For a younger man!” He finishes up with the fish at the sink, rinses off his hands, pulls out a pan and sets it on the stove.

Mr. Graves’ aggrieved ill-temper is all play, belied by the laughter in his eyes; but Credence, even in jest, cannot imagine anyone throwing over Mr. Graves. What must she be like? He wonders if Mr. Graves is seeing anyone—he is not married, surely. Credence stays out on the landing for another moment, waiting for the hot flush in his cheeks, and the strange hollowness in his chest, to fade. When he has recovered, he climbs back inside and washes his hands and sets to peeling the potatoes.

Over lunch, they discuss the weather, the cats, theology, books which Credence has not yet read. They are only halfway through _Pilgrim’s Progress_ , but Mr. Graves already has suggestions for afterward: Milton, if Credence has his heart set on another Puritan; Irving, if Credence has any interest in local history—

“History!” exclaims Credence.

“Oh, he was also a historian,” says Mr. Graves. “But you are thinking of his folktales, which are more famous. But folktales are rooted in history too.”

“Who could sleep twenty years, through an entire war?” asks Credence in some confusion. Mr. Graves’ eyes brighten expectantly. “But that is not history if you mean it _metaphorically_!”

Mr. Graves laughs, a bright strong sound so open it invites the hearer to join in. Credence smiles helplessly. The laughter bubbles up irresistible. He sets down his fork and fumbles for a napkin to hide his smile—but in a moment’s distraction, his elbow knocks over his water glass, sending it over the table edge.

Panic seizes Credence’s heart. He has broken Mr. Graves’ glassware. And how nice the day had been!— now ruined. Desperately, he wishes that the glass would not fall. If only he had paid more attention, if only the glass would not fall, if only—

Then, horribly, horribly—it is so. The glass does not fall. It remains suspended over the edge of the table. The water inside frozen midair, as if time as stopped.

In a sudden rush, the _wickedness_ of what he has done washes over Credence. He has time enough to meet Mr. Graves’ astonished eyes and _still_ the glass hovers. Then Credence knows a deeper regret. What would have been the cost of a broken glass compared to this revelation: Credence’s unnaturalness, Credence’s sinful nature?

But perhaps Mr. Graves is not as perceptive as Ma. Perhaps Mr. Graves is willing to explain such strangeness away—perhaps Mr. Graves has not yet realized that witchcraft is happening in his kitchen. With the same fervent desperation as when he had wished the glass not to break, now Credence wills it to fall. It must fall. Credence will take any punishment for breaking the glass, he will endure Mr. Graves’ disappointment—better disappointment than terror—

The glass shatters on the floor. The crash of it is loud in the sudden silence. Credence stares at his plate, holding himself so tensely his hands tremble. He must say something. He must apologize. He must seem normal. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to meet Mr. Graves’.

“I’m sorry about your glass, Mr. Graves.”

Mr. Graves stays quiet, still looking at Credence with wide-eyed surprise. “No,” he says absently. “Not at all.” Slowly, the surprise fades, replaced with thoughtfulness. His gaze sharpens, brows furrowing.

Anxiety roils in Credence’s stomach. Mr. Graves’ expression looks strange—as if something has occurred to him, as if he is on the verge of a realization. “I am—so clumsy,” Credence tries, dry-throated. “I should have paid more attention…”

He trails off. In horrified fascination, Credence stares as the glass fragments on the floor float up, flashing occasionally when they catch the sunlight. They trail a lazy spiral up through the air. In another moment, the fragments have reassembled themselves into a glass again. It sets itself on the table by Credence’s elbow. Credence stares at the unbroken glass and then at the wet patch on the floor where the water had spilled.

“Th-that…” Credence croaks, frightened into confession. “That was not me.”

“No,” says Mr. Graves. He picks up the glass, but his eyes remain on Credence. “That was me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abraham's paradox of faith is from Kierkegaard. The line about Beethoven, I stole from Mary Oliver's Leaves and Blossoms Along the Way: " _Some words will never leave God's mouth/no matter how hard you listen. /In all the works of Beethoven, you will/not find a single lie._ "


End file.
